


Paper Boats

by flecksofpoppy



Series: In the ether [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Consent, Implied Consent, M/M, Orgasm Control, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Psychic Consentacles, Psychic Sex, Slight Manga Spoilers, canonverse, psychic!armin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin has some abilities that only Jean knows about. As mid-level officers in the Survey Corp. five years after Trost, trust goes a long way amidst the chaos all around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Boats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theisles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theisles/gifts).



> This is the first in a series of fics that take place within an AU that me and tumblr user Dylo (now mjolklizard) created in our own weird heads. It started with psychic tentacles, and then evolved into... something.
> 
> This is a little one shot teaser written for her birthday. Pony boy gets hot and bothered by bookworm bad ass strategist Armin Arlert. More to come!

When they were sixteen, Armin saved Jean’s life. 

He claimed later that he was able to do it because he finally became a bad person—that he pulled the trigger first because he “knew he had to” and did the thing that he’d been urging Eren to do for years. Jean just hadn’t known the full extent of the words until later. 

While Jean wouldn’t call Armin a monster, the way that Armin seems to view himself, he’s also no longer a good person. This is because there aren’t any “good” people. Being good is a myth created by the desperate or sheltered. It’s as real as the belief that humanity actually remembers anything.

Now, five years later, the only thing that’s changed is that Jean has sliced his way through his own youth, and Armin has pulled the trigger several more times. But there’s more to it than that. 

Between hunting Titans and periodically _being_ hunted by the Military Police, it’s hard to keep track of any details besides whether ODM blades are sharp and what months missions outside the Wall are scheduled for.

There had never been any doubt during training that Armin would join the Survey Corp.; and there hadn’t been any doubt after Trost that Jean would join, too.

And now they find themselves some years later a bit more scarred, battered, and bitter; but still alive, and still together.

Jean finds Armin sitting in front of the fire, looking down pensively at the formation for the next day that’s been handed to him.

Armin is the next Commander Smith in the making—or so they say—and he’s privy to information others aren’t. But Jean isn’t “others,” and has his own reputation to speak of.

“So,” he starts casually, walking up to sit down on a thick log across from Armin, “what’ve they got in store for us tomorrow?”

The soldiers have gone to bed already, and all the senior officers are in a nearby ramshackle military building, discussing other matters. They’ve pitched camped overnight just inside the perimeter of the Wall, intending to set out early the next day and start from a different point than the usual populated areas.

“Straight formation,” Armin replies, looking up at Jean with tired blue eyes. “The usual. Nothing new there.”

Jean gives half of a grin and rubs at a scuff on his boot. “No special preemptive formations this time?”

“That was a fluke,” Armin replies softly, immediately averting his eyes down, letting the strands of blond hair that aren’t bound behind his head hang down around his face. The white shirt he’s wearing is pristine, and his bolo tie is perfectly centered.

Armin was always small for his age, but he started filling out around seventeen. He’s still not built as well as Jean, but his broad shoulders are very different from the insecure kid that Jean remembers; although, the same could be said of Jean himself. Neither of them resemble the children they once were.

“Levi is getting suspicious,” Jean replies simply, shifting to cross his legs and stare into the fire. It makes strange shadows against the group of tents pitched behind them that they’ll be sleeping in. 

These days, it’s an unspoken rule that you only share tents or bunks with people you trust, because it’s becoming increasingly difficult to even know who’s trustworthy within specific branches of military. The Survey Corp, however, is still a tightly knit group. To voluntarily venture outside the Wall isn’t exactly the most desired position within the ranks, so they don’t get a lot of newcomers.

“He’s too busy with Erwin to be suspicious,” Armin finally replies in a soft voice, raising his head to dart a cautious glance around them. 

“They’re still busy scheming,” Jean replies with a lazy yawn, nudging his head behind them in the direction of the structure being used by the upper commandment. “No one’s listening.”

“Everything has ears,” Armin retorts immediately, giving Jean a hard look.

Jean snorts, but doesn’t say anything else; he never doubts what Armin says these days. Nevertheless, he has more to say; he at least lowers his voice. “And they think Eren’s the one with the mental powers.”

Armin’s face falls, and Jean immediately regrets his words. No one has spoken to Eren in years; they only see him in battle in his Titan form, and then he’s whisked back away into the clutches of the upper officers. At least he’s not in the monarchy’s paws. Erwin’s managed to avoid that conclusion for years, as if by magic.

Jean feels something right then in his head, and it makes his breath catch. It’s nothing harsh, and it almost feels like the type of light smack his mother might have given him in the back of the head when he’d said bad words as a kid.

“Are you serious?” he demands with wide eyes, staring at Armin in disbelief.

“I told you to stop talking.”

“Get _out_ of my head.”

“I’m not in your head,” Armin retorts curtly. “If I was in your head, you’d know it.”

“Stop nudging my head, then,” Jean corrects, feeling that little curl of fear rise up from the base of his spine that he associates with Armin, even though he places his life in Armin’s hands every day.

“Then stop talking about things that shouldn’t be discussed in the open,” Armin declares tersely, frowning at Jean, blue eyes sparking with that light that frightens half the Survey Corp. and Military Police.

Jean huffs with a sigh, feeling suddenly petulant, but he gives a sharp nod. “Fine,” he grunts.

Intelligence frightens everyone, but Jean knows the real reason to be afraid of Armin; the best—and worst—part of the entire thing is that Armin doesn’t reject that fear. He’s not the brand of monster that Eren wishes he wasn’t, or a willing weapon devoid of design.

“I’m going to bed,” Jean finally says, rising slowly and stretching, trying not to watch the way the fire sparks toward the clear night sky. He’s never done well with the way sparks look in the sky after Trost. “Up early tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Armin agrees with a slight nod.

Jean just lingers for a moment, and Armin goes back to what he was doing; but Jean’s presence grows awkward after a few beats of silence. They both know what he’s thinking, and Armin doesn’t even need to pry into Jean’s mind. Not that he ever does in the first place—one reason why their trust is so complete—but he could if he wanted to.

He _could_ , and that’s what keeps Jean on his toes.

“I’ll be up,” he finally states simply, and then turns quickly, fastening his cloak more tightly around his shoulders as he walks away from the fire and toward his tent.

For all of his bragging and high expectations for a life of luxury after making the top ten all those years ago, if his old classmates were still alive, they'd laugh if they could see him now.

His patched canvas tent is made for one person, outfitted with a sleeping bag and zipper closures at the entrance to keep out the cold. It’s designed for inclement weather on the outside, and warmth on the inside. Mercifully, it’s spring, so there isn’t any snow to contend with.

Jean places his boots carefully near the entrance, and strips off his clothing down to the long underwear he’s wearing underneath his uniform. The fabric has been darned devotedly by his mother over the years when he returns to visit her since equipment for the Survey Corp. is in short supply these days.

He makes quick work of folding his clothes and tucking them into his pack, and double checks that his ODM blades and harness are placed neatly with his boots near the entrance. If they ever faced a surprise Titan attack, his gear is stored safely nearby in an adjacent tent. 

The sleeping bag promises to be warm within only a few minutes as he slides down into it, almost blissfully so. While it used to take Jean nearly an hour to get to sleep—hyperaware of his surroundings and full of nerves—now he can fall unconscious in a matter of minutes. He can also wake up in a matter of seconds, and arm himself in only a few more.

But tonight is different, just like every night before a mission. It’s not the time to fall asleep instantaneously, because Jean has other things on his mind.

He’s never taken much pleasure in sex. It’s not that he doesn’t have the urge—he often does—but it’s come to the point where the idea of prostitutes doesn’t appeal to him, and any other option creates far too many complications. There’s a common practice only whispered about that many soldiers in the Survey Corp. are celibate unless they prefer the company of prostitutes. It depends on each individual person, of course, but Jean’s always found celibacy (save his hand and the occasional transgression) preferable to paying someone. 

Suddenly, his thoughts are interrupted as something flickers in his mind, and his breath catches the same way as before. He closes his eyes, sinking into the strange sensation willingly, completely prone.

The first time they did this, he wasn’t sure how to accept it. He wanted to—had even consented to it beforehand—but his unconscious instinct to fight overwhelmed him, and it hadn’t ended well. In fact, he’d cried inconsolably for an hour until Armin had found him and sat with him, unspeaking, but a comforting presence. Jean had only been eighteen, but he’d forced himself to do it again; the second time was better.

He’s far more accustomed to it now, and his back arches as soon as he feels that gentle grip settle there on his will.

Armin’s psychic touch isn’t hard, but it also isn’t gentle. It’s simply uncompromising in its strength, much like Armin’s will, but Jean trusts him to let go if asked.

Jean’s breath quickens and his entire body tenses, every inch of skin hyper-aware of the textures around him—the roughness of the thick material of the long underwear which he fumbles to unfasten, the strain of his neck as he tilts his head back, and the calluses on his hands as he reaches down to touch himself.

He does it partially so Armin will force him not to, and immediately, his hands fly above his head and are pinned there by nothing other than his own mind betraying him.

He moans softly, biting his lip to keep quiet as his hips buck, his biceps straining to move. He feels so vulnerable it’s almost as if someone is drawing a freshly sharpened blade against his throat, hovering over his fluttery pulse, and he allows it.

There’s a distinct presence in his mind now—yes, he does know when Armin’s there, true to the words spoken before—and suddenly he gives a sharp moan as a burst of pleasure wracks his body. It starts in his head, and the force of it shudders down through his neck and shoulders, pushing forcefully into his hips and legs until his cock tingles.

He bites his cheek to stop from groaning, and takes a sharp breath as Armin hits his pleasure receptors again; it’s like an agonizing shimmer, and this time, it goes straight to his cock.

His heart speeds up and he starts to squirm, whimpering pathetically as his hips flex, his cock hard and over-stimulated now. Armin’s only given him two nudges and he’s already ready to come, desperate and wanton.

The worst part is that he knows Armin is trying very intentionally to drive him crazy, and he starts to crack as there’s two more maddeningly sharp pulses, pushing against that part of his mind, similar to the feeling of when he fucks his own fingers and hits that place inside himself.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his mouth finally hanging open as he pants, his back arching as his head buzzes with the sensation of Armin’s mind right alongside his own, so close, lingering there and almost whispering in a dark, velvety voice that he’s going to feel that exquisite ache until he comes.

“Armin,” Jean groans pitifully, his voice rising into a whine, “stop torturing me.”

All he gets for that plea is a few very distinct jolts of sensation that immediately spike to his cock and makes him give an outright yelp.

Everything is raw, and he’s so aroused he can barely stand it; he can feel his cock leaking precome, he’s spread his legs wide apart without even realizing, and he’s twitching his hips pathetically.

“There,” he shudders, arching his back more sharply, fucking the textures he can feel, trying to find friction.

Armin pushes at that same place in his mind again, that same strange sensation that could be the touch of fingers against his prostate, but feels more akin to gentle words spoken into his ear that make him want to cry, like a lovely memory that’s no longer retrievable.

A few tears leak out of his eyes as Armin physically caresses that part of his mind. It’s careful and almost reverent, passing over the most vulnerable parts of Jean’s mind, and an orgasmic wave rushes through him so intense he can’t hold on.

His spine practically bows, and he loses his breath, sobbing through his orgasm. It feels like he’s drowning as his cock spurts come in a way that isn’t as explosive as he always expects, but still a type of relief he could never articulate in speech.

It’s an emotion that can only be expressed in a wordless language made of complex biochemistry, seconds measured in heartbeats, and vulnerability—something that no one except Armin understands.

Then, his hands are suddenly set free, and he feels Armin leave; his head is empty again, and he shudders, wrapping both arms around himself.

A few more tears trickle down his cheeks, and the abrupt loneliness he feels is so suffocating, he can barely breathe.

But Armin doesn’t ever leave him to suffer—wouldn’t ever, not here, and not in battle—and a sudden warmth blooms in Jean’s mind like a candle in the dark.

He always puts Jean to bed, even after he first disappears; Jean can’t help but wonder if Armin’s recovering from his own orgasm. They’ve never been in the same room when they do this, or even acknowledged it fully in words.

It’s the kind of comfort that most people don’t have the luxury of experiencing, but Armin sends Jean’s mind adrift into sleep, a gentle push like a paper boat into a vast, calm lake.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: if it's not clear by the end of this one shot (which I hope it is), Jean is a fully consenting party and has been from the beginning. It was a learning curve, though.


End file.
